The Juvenile Holmes
by The Elven TARDIS Girl at 221B
Summary: Holmes and Watson. It's meant to be, isn't it? Even from the very beginning, one or the other has always been faking their death and leaving the other in a state. Andromeda Holmes found her Watson, but it'll be a while before she finds her Home. Who wiped her memory, and why? Even Sherlock himself discovers he has shifty teenage years. (Includes Femlock, Teenlock and Johnlock.)
1. Chapter 1

**Most of these characters belong to the BBC and aren't mine. However, the ones that I did create myself, I take credit for. **

**Also, the idea for the story is mine, so please don't take any of my ideas. Imagine I have an actually copyright license or something please. Thank you! **

**The Juvenile Holmes**

**Chapter One**

_"Boom"_

"It must have been a premeditaed murder. He's been dead for a while." Doctor Watson observes. "But why he is dead, I don't know."

"Yes, thank you for your useless deduction, John. It's a joyous thing that I have about four ideas of how he died, isn't it?" A voice echoed across the tiled room. It came from a woman stood in the doorway to flat. She had already thrown her gloves at one of the sofas in the living room that the door led to.

The Doctor stood from his kneeling position beside the body and turned to look at his partner in crime, not surprised in the least. In fact, he even rolled his eyes and muttered, "Of course you do," under his breath as he walked around the cluttered dining table in the middle of the room to sit in one of the overly padded sofas. He crossed his arms across his chest and clunked his shoed feet on the coffee table in defiance.

She had heard but she ignored him and stalked, long-legged, over to the victim. Her lean frame seemed to crumple to the ground in her long coat as she knelt to examine the corpse that lay in front of her. He was on his side, so she could see the length of the Roman nose the man had and his big brown eyes that had glossed over about four hours ago. She poked and prodded the body, checking inside the expensive tweed jacket pockets and in his mouth too. The man was around thirty, she deduced. 'But under stress most of the time and ages badly,' she thought as she spotted the gray in the victim's dark, short cut hair.

Then, 'Oh…' as she sees no other way the man could have died other than- "Oh," escaped her lips. A piece of crumpled paper caught her eye. She fished it out from where it lay under the stove next to the dead man's outstretched hand. The killer had deliberately placed the man's arm underneath his head to point to the note than she now held in her hand. It didn't need to be opened to know the message scrawled across it in messy cursive, like the others.

"John!" she called, but the man had left. 'Good', but she thought too soon, John reentered the room with a male cop dressed in the usual reflective yellow coat and communicator wires.

"Andy, tell the police what you've got, it's time to go." The dark blond haired man said.

"Oh, it's definitely time to go, John" came the haunted reply. The female's thoughtful gray eyes flicked up to the gas buttons on the stove. "Shit," she murmured.

The cop whispered something into John's ear and left, the front door creaked as they exited it. The car's sirens could be heard as the officer drove it away.

'I hate old houses in the middle of nowhere, always so loud.' The woman by the body thought, distracted for a moment.

"Andromeda…" He would have said more if the woman he addressed had not stood quickly from her crouch beside the body.

"Go!" She turned to face the man, her pitch-black hair swishing along her back as she did so. "Go!" she repeated, actual worry in her eyes as she made shooing motions with her hands at John.

The man didn't question her and slid out the door, and into the hallway. The dark haired detective knew he hadn't really left, because there was no creak of the front door, but she didn't care anymore. If he didn't want to save himself, then so be it. The answer she had had in her mind for about ten minutes now was voiced, but with no one but the dark shape in the corner to listen.

"He choked to death in odorless stove gas, very clever. I guess the gas has faded enough so I can breathe, but not enough so that some could light a fire safely…" A pair of green-blue eyes widened as she saw movement in a particularly lightless hallway (probably leading to the victim's bedroom.) The man in the dark shuffled so Andromeda could see his silhouette against the light emitted from a curtained window. He held a lighter.

"John, I told you to leave!" She cried as she ran out of the living room and skidded into the hallway leading to the door, where John stood, wide-eyed. Her arms flailed as she caught her balance from sliding on the hardwood floors and ran after her partner, not bothering to shut the door. She watched John jump the wooden fence surrounding the house, in too much of a hurry to open the gate.

He turned around in the dirt road to look for the detective, but she was not far behind. Her black trench coat swished as she landed her jump over the fence. John marveled at her beauty as gravity pushed her hair to frame her face. It swished much like her coat. Once he saw she was okay, he turned to run. He didn't have long to do so, because before the he could hear the woman's feet thud against the ground as she ran, an explosion behind them threw both of their faces forward and into the dust.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Disclaimer: God dammit, some of these characters STILL aren't mine! BUT SOME OF THEM ARE, OKAY, AND THEY'RE MINE FOR THE TAKING. CHARACTER THIEVERY IS A CRIME. _**

**_Fair warning: The majority of my chapters DO in fact end on cliffhangers._**

**_Chapter Two_**

**_Anamnesis_**

It had begun to snow during the time they were inside, and the explosion had turned the thin layer of frozen rain on the turf grey. Andromeda crawled on her arms over to John, still coughing in the dusty air. She approached him and settled on her elbows beside him. Once he was done clearing his lungs, John's watery eyes locked on her.

"Are all the houses you enter naturally spontaneous?" he gave the girl a look perfected by over use, one of suspect: raised eyebrows and a somewhat haughty "I know what you did," look in the deep blue eyes of John's. If she understood his facial message, she didn't twig and continued to stare forward with her arms tucked underneath her chest. "I mean, they don't just explode by themselves, do they? There'd have to be a bomb. And inside bombs there are CHEMICAL reactions." John was referring to the fact that his friend meddled with the arts of chemistry.

She finally took notice of him and turned her head slightly in his direction, her eyes taking in his face. Her angular lips formed a smile as she deduced the obvious; He thought she had done it! She turned away from him again and laughed, while he continued to stare at her, disbelief at her behavior attacking his facial features. He rolled his eyes and lifted his hands to his face so he could sigh into them.

"Andy, you can't just go around blowing places up." Shuffling sounds beside him cut him off. He looked over to see his tall friend standing, her hands in her pockets. Her coat was covered in yellow and gray dust. Melted snow made darker patches along it. She noticed his silence and looked down. Knowing of his injuries, she held her leather-gloved hand out to help him up. Sighing again, he took it, and she swooped him to his feet. She may be thin, but sometimes her strength surprised John.

"John, you assume too many things." She said. John mocked her, while brushing himself down, as she added, "Always look at the facts we know to be true, and then deduce the impossible from there." She then stalked off towards the gravel road, her iconic coat trailing behind her. John hated that coat. Although she believed she looked cool in it, he always thought it was like her minion- following her everywhere and somehow sneering and laughing at the people she managed to show up and piss off with her large intellect and show off behavior. He never dared to try and tell anyone he thought that, although most would probably agree. She, however, would put a hand to his head thinking he had a fever. John imagined that scenario in his head.

"John," Andy would say, "It is not an immediate assumption for me think you have a fever, because you are imagining coats having faces and laughing at you. Normally, people who imagine things such as this are either drugged and sick or mentally challenged. Also I do not have the data I need to know for my guess that you are sick, and this is me getting the information."

The honking of a horn interrupted his thoughts. The woman, who had accompanied him through the inspection, beckoned him into the car. The cabbie had honked the horn, against his will, of course. Andromeda was very impatient, but wasn't going to leave John out here on his own with no way of getting back home. She wasn't that cruel. She'd leave him alone in London, but not out here in London's greenbelt. He grinned and jogged over to the door.

"Where were you, Watson?" the cabbie spoke as the door slammed shut and Andromeda shifted over to the left side of the car, "Off in your mind palace?" John found that the cabbie wasn't a paid cabbie at all, more a paid Detective Inspector by the name of Gregory "Greg" Lestrade.

"Lestrade, Andy has a mind palace, not me." John replied.

"Of course it is," said Lestrade sarcastically.

"Do you ever bother to pay attention to anything she says?" John had to know.

The DI sighed heavily, and in the rear-view mirror, John could see the worry lines in his forehead deepen. His hair was already grey, and his dark chocolate eyes showed he had seen too much. What was he doing meddling with the mischievous behaviors of two dangerous young people? Doing his job was the answer to that. Not the Detective Inspector part, no, the one another certain Watson had paid him good money to do.

Not addressing Andromeda herself, although she was still in the cab, Lestrade answered, "Sometimes I don't understand that girl, her mind is too different for that." He said the word different as if she were nothing more than just that.

The insult didn't seem to penetrate Andromeda's deep concentration as she gazed out onto the frosty fields, but she listens to everything and filters through the information after. So, flicking her hair out of her eyes and continuing to stare out the condensation-covered window, she murmured, "I guess genius isn't his division." She aimed the phrase more at John than the DI, but he, nevertheless, heard. "Neither are brains or any type of intelligent thoughts, I suppose."

Before the girl spoke, Greg had a nonchalant gaze onto the slowly darkening sky and the, now paved, roads of the British countryside. At her comment, the man's eyes seemed to sink into his skin and his age of fifty-five showed immensely. He'd already had to deal with another like her today, why him? John covered his mouth, attempting to hide his amusement, but Andromeda saw him and smiled. Instead of full on giggling like he had now come to doing, she just grinned and breathed more air out of her nose than she usually would.

Now people usually find, that the more tired they are, the funnier a small joke is. This was so with the two in the back of Inspector Lestrade's police car on the journey back to into Greater London. John had nearly been in an explosion, and Andromeda hadn't slept in, what was it now, four days? At the thought of explosions came one of gunfire and war, like the stories he had heard as an adolescent. The two eventually stopped laughing, much to Lestrade's relief, and John was left to his childhood memories.

A little boy, around the age of eight, sat in an old and torn leather couch; Literally, in it. His mother had screamed at him in one of her uncalled for rages. In the acme of her delirium, she had found her child looking through old family photos.

'There's nothing upsetting about that is there, right?' the boy had reasoned. Wrong. There was one image in there of his mother's last boyfriend, the last one (before she admitted to herself she was gay). That man was a good one, willing to care for the sick woman and cute looking; He had a little, rounded nose, (The same one the boy had inherited) eyes most would call "puppy dog eyes" if they weren't so blue, a small, rounded face, and wasn't all that tall. In fact, he looked a little like the boy's uncle, whom he had met all of once. The woman had snatched the picture frame out of the boy's small hands, took one look at it and smacked the boy across the head with so much force that his little legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor. This seemed to anger the woman further and she picked her child up roughly by the arm and shoved him into the nearest thing she could find, which was the couch. She then had pulled the pillows off of it, and shoved the boy under them. And so the boy sat, not crying. He was used to this.

The boy, being a little bit precocious, knew why she hurt and abused him for seemingly no reason at all. Alcohol. He had tried it himself once, and had the most horrible headache afterwards. Here's what he did: He saw her drink some bottled liquid in the fridge. When his mother left to buy more of the liquid, he drank all of it that was left. The he waited. The little child prodigy found he had the same symptoms as his mother; He felt anger, for no reason at all, fatigue, craving and then along came the horrible headache. He then researched the symptoms, and found his answer.

This little boy, when the housekeeper found his small frame in the pillows and plopped him on the floor, asked who his father was. The older woman turned from adjusting the sofa and looked at him. The boy always loved how soft her lightly tanned face was, despite the fact that time had pressed down on her skin causing it to droop slightly. He looked into her hazel eyes as she spoke to him, all the while her chocolate coloured hair bobbing up and down in its bun as she moved. The French woman sat back on her knees in front of the blonde child and looked into his eyes as deeply as they were blue.

"Mon garçon," her voice was tinted with a purr that most English speaking French have, "You know who your papa is." When the dirty blonde eyebrows in front of her crinkled together in a confused fashion, she added, "Come on, enfant! I know there is something beautiful between those adorable ouïe of yours!" She reached forward and tugged playfully at his earlobe, his giggle as a result. The answer hit him within the minute.

"The man in the photo I had!" he cried and leapt to his tiny feet.

"Chut!" the woman tapped his leg, looking around to assure his mother had not woken from when she passed out a few minutes ago. The child, accustomed to her use of French with English, sat and hushed. "Now tell me how you know that."

In his little voice, the boy spoke. "My mum wouldn't be so mad at me if that man didn't have some relation to me, and if she had regretted doing something in his presence that involved me. She's always saying how I was a mistake, and she would change it so I never existed if she could." He looked forlorn for a second, and then continued. "Basically, she doesn't want me to know about him because she regrets having me because I'm his."

The woman was not astounded in any way. She stood carefully, age affecting her every jittery move. Ruffling his hair, she said, "petit génie," and continued to fluff up the sofa cushions. The boy grinned; a happy, sunshine grin that lit up the gray fog in the sad house. The same one his father, Jamison Matthew Webb, and uncle, John Watson Senior, had.

John was snapped from his thoughts. Literally snapped; Andromeda was snapping her fingers in front of his face.

"Oi! Off my lap, or I'll report you to the station for what you did earlier."

John's first sight as he woke was the back of the dark leather passenger's chair of Lestrade's cab. He was comfortable and he lay on something cozy and warm. It took him a second to realise he was on Andromeda's legs. He clenched his sore stomach muscles and sat up, flustered.

"Sorry," he murmured.

The only other iconic thing about Andromeda Holmes, besides her coat (which actually isn't hers) is her scowl. Ninety percent of the time, she'd be scowling at you for interrupting her thoughts and/or annoying her. But sometimes, she'd just be scowling into space as one thousand deductions whizzed past in her "thought process train" and you'd be lucky to still be in the same room as her to be there for her to scowl "at".

This time, however, was the ninety percent. John stared into her moonstone eyes, which fluxed and changed colour with the weather and behavior of her London home. Currently, they were a stony grey. He sometimes wished there were some caring emotion in those bright, glossy portals to the universe when he looked deep enough. There never was.

His own eyes flicked around the rest of her face. She had fairly thick eyebrows, not bushy, and they were the same colour as her long, ebony hair, which cascaded down her back in soft curls that just went past her shoulder blades. As of that second, her eyebrows were furrowed in the center and pointed slightly downwards. Her sharp cheekbones started almost right underneath her eyes and cut off around the end of her long, Roman nose, leaving an almost gaunt looking curve to the rest of her face. She had a well-proportioned mouth, at least, if you compared it to the size of her head that held her genius brain.

The depression in her upper lip dipped down smoothly, almost gracefully, to just above the opening of her mouth. Her bottom lip was slightly larger than average, but not so much that it jutted out absurdly. John admitted to himself that he had thought of kissing that lip passionately as he felt the curve of her body against his and- He shoved the thought away.

'She never would.' He did one last longing look of her face before realising her expression had morphed into an amused one that clearly said, "I'm TOTALLY not judging you." (The thing about this woman, is that she doesn't judge you for what you're wearing, more how fast your brain can work, or, in John's case, staring into space too often without any useful thought behind your eyes.)

"John, you're staring." The DI driving eyed him in the rear view mirror, the soft crinkles beside his eyes showed he was laughing at him.

Andromeda had gone back to her oblivious peering out of the window. John wasn't surprised, the girl loved snow.

He thought the subject had dropped, but obviously not, because she turned to look at him again, a mischievous, know-it-all complexion to her. "Don't worry, John. Many people find me beautiful." She watched his cheeks go a bright, cherry red. "Do you want me to explain why?"

Now it was John's turn to stare absently out of the window on his side. He pressed his cheek against the window in an attempt to subside the colour. "You have no modesty do you?"

"John, society is weird, and so is the human race's description of attractive. But normally, as I have seen on your magazines, the placing of women's facial features is normally the same on all of them. Their figures are all the same too, may I point out, all slim and 'sexy'. Now, people get bored of basically the same woman over and over again, and crave something slightly different: Larger lips, sharper features, more prominent cheekbones maybe? Basically, I'm part of that something different."

"So, no?"

Her lips spread into a wide smile, "Never assume, John."

All the while, the Inspector had been listening in to their bickering. He noticed John's emotions, but did Andromeda?

After a long silence, John became aware of Andy's earlier threat. "What did I do?"

Both the Inspector and detective laughed. "How slow are you?" Lestrade asked, rhetorically.

"Idiot," Andromeda rolled her eyes, but there was no real hate behind them, "I was going to blame the explosion of the country house on you."

John didn't have time to come up with a sassy retort because the car jerked to the right abruptly and, while swearing could be heard flowing from the man in the front seat, Andromeda found herself flung against John. His arms immediately wrapped themselves around her frail body, out of instinct of years protecting others from his mother's rage. The blonde man's heart rate upped, and, as Andromeda pressed herself up from John's protective grasp, felt it in his wrist. She looked at him, her face twisted into one of either horror or surprise, John couldn't tell.

'Either one,' he thought, 'would be a new expression for her.' But he didn't know why her mouth opened slightly and her eyes widened at his touch. He had been there for her when she woke sweaty and screaming three nights ago. She had trusted him enough to let him into her bed (while both of them in their pajamas), and let him snuggle up to her, mingling their hair in a tangle of blonde and black. Why is he not allowed to touch her now?

An abandoned (or so they told her) female, only six years old, sat on the cold tiling of a laboratory, screaming her lungs out as the blood pooled around her legs. She held her head, the black hair on it getting tangled in the process. She couldn't move. It wasn't going to happen. Eventually, an adult came in and lifted her from the floor. She was completely dry, but the screaming didn't stop. She kicked as the man slung her over his shoulder and carried her away. The girl felt emotions now. They had done something to her, but she was so overwhelmed with all the fluttering and flips her insides seemed to be doing, she couldn't get a straight though through her head before she passed out.

Well, none other than a single word: "Help."

As she slipped in and out of consciousness, the ebony haired girl heard snippets of a conversation.

"Her psychopathic behavior seemed to go away for a while, she was afraid at least." The voice was smooth, like her very words were made of silk.

"No! No, no, no!" A hoarse man's voice echoed across the room. The girl kept her eyes shut, but guessed that she was still in the laboratory, based on how the sound bounced from wall to wall. "For one thing, you imbecile, she is a SOCIOPATH. Another thing, we want her to be able to feel love, not fear necessarily. THAT IS THE WHOLE PURPOSE OF THIS EXPERIMENT. If she can be sentimentally attached to something or, if we are lucky, someone, we can find that thing or person, threaten them and hence manipulate her mind for our purposes. I thought I told you this!"

Silence.

Later: "What about her mother?" The female voice piped up again.

"She didn't care anyway."

She didn't care anyway.

Andromeda shook as she exited the cab. She almost fell onto the slippery cement, but managed to catch herself in time. Never again would she feel emotion. NEVER.

She stood on the curb of the pavement, shut the door, and then put her hands on top of the car for support as she looked around across the street. "John, where are we?" she asked, putting a little quiver into her voice for effect (and maybe to cover up the fact she almost slipped). She experimented with John's emotions.

Apparently, he had not forgiven her for shoving him away from her in the car earlier because he said, with no sympathy in his voice, (good riddance) "You know where we are."

The woman stood straighter, still facing the cab, until the information clicked in her head. She HAD been tracking every turn of the car since they left the, now abandoned, country home, despite her little doze.

"Shit," she growled.

"I thought you'd say that, but you do have to give the coat back." John's voice was slightly further away now, so she deduced that he was at the door of the dreaded flat. "He's going to be very pissed off."

Lestrade poked his head out of the cab, "Welcome home, Holmes."

The snow fell on her hair and landed lightly on the soft black waves. She closed her eyes, only to open them again when she turned slowly around to take in the dark wooden door of 221B Baker's Street, London.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: News flash! I don't own Sherlock, the BBC does! Haha, if only I did. If only... **

**Do me a favour and leave a like or review. (no hate please, only critique) My only motivation is reading about my own fantasy world, which is getting to be somewhat of a bore. So TELL ME if you like this story. Say SOMETHING! Thanks. **

**Oh and if you have a favorite character so far, you'll probably hate me by the end of this chapter!**

**Chapter Three**

_The Boys of Baker's Street_

"Sherlock, they're here."

"I know."

"Of course you do."

"John, you took me here. You know how much I hate… my rival." Andromeda stormed up to her partner in crime, who had his hand on the golden knocker. To put it into simple words, she was tall. John had issues with height, but this is her having almost seven inches on him. And she was female! John turned away from the door to risk contemplation of Andromeda's icy cold eyes as she stared him down. She knew, oh she knew how much that unnerved him.

A cold feeling emptied him of all hope as he saw the hard, emotionless leer behind the crystal blue irises. The shadow of her coat collar cascaded over her sharp-featured face, making her cheekbones evermore pronounced and covered her nose and mouth in shadow. But the faint light from the street lamp hit her forehead and eyes, which made them shine brightly and they bored into John like lasers. He glanced away from her face at the ground beside her for a fraction of a second, and Andromeda swooped down from the steps, knowing she won.

'Dammit." One day John would work up the nerve to stare into her eyes until SHE looked away, instead of him.

Her feet crunched on fresh snow as she paced along the pavement before the door and began to rant about how her "rival" stole all her fame and covered up all dramatic stunts she'd done.

However, John had learned to shut her out of his thoughts. He mumbled to himself, "Honestly, you would think people would know that there's more than one sociopath in London!" He then lifted the knocker in his hands and let it fall onto the door. Twice. He listened as the noise penetrated the door and echoed through the house. (He did, however, hear Andromeda as she now ranted at him for knocking on the door. More words to shut out.)

"Don't answer the door."

"But it's my nephew."

"DON'T"

"Sherlock!"

"What are you going to do about it, John?"

The shorter man stood, putting his cup of tea and laptop down on the table beside him, "I'm going to answer it." He started over to the door.

Like an assassin in the shadows, ebony haired Sherlock Holmes was in front of his blogger, blocking the entrance to the stairwell. How he got across the room so fast from sitting comfortably in his chair, John would never know.

"I told you NOT to answer the door." The words were forced through gritted teeth, and cold eyes stared down into the blogger John. The blond man knew to step down.

"Fine." He nodded and backed away. "Fine." A shaky breath was taken. When Sherlock told you not to do something, you didn't do it. John thought to stand up to him sometimes, stare intently into his cold eyes, murderer's eyes, as much as the detective did into his. But he never could.

"Uncle! Answer the door, would you? It's cold out here?" the John outside called to the darkened window. "What if they aren't in?"

"Oh they are," Andromeda murmured before blowing into her hands to try and keep them warm. 'That's another stupid pair of nice gloves that blew up,' she thought. If the chill were a wolf, it'd be gnawing on her toes and fingertips hungrily.

John hadn't been wearing a cosy warm jacket as Andromeda was. He sat on the steps, hugging his arms to his body and shivered. Andromeda stopped pacing long enough to plop her jacket on his shoulders. She didn't need a frozen body to take care of today, thank you very much Mother Nature.

John looked up at the detective gratefully, but she wasn't looking at him as she slumped the oversized overcoat around him. She, instead, concentrated at what she was doing.

John was tempted to grab her hand to stop her from walking away into the frosty air and maybe join him under the coat, but he didn't, due to the sound of a door swinging open behind him.

"John!"

The man being addressed turned and stood, holding the jacket out to the woman behind him. "Uncle!"

The two, both named John, embraced, tentatively though; they had only met once before.

They broke apart and the older John looked over his nephew's shoulder at Andromeda and then back to John and raised his eyebrows. These two had not met, but knew of each other's existence. The younger John shook his head and widened his eyes at the man in the doorway's suggestive facial message.

The female detective nodded, "Doctor Watson."

"You must be Andromeda," the doctor replied, and Young John stepped aside so his uncle could shake the woman's hand.

The stairs inside the flat creaked, and a dark shaped appeared behind Older John. In the faded light seeping into the hallway of 221B, a pair of cold, unfeeling eyes narrowed at the woman outside. The same hostility was returned, and both Johns shared a questioning look.

A throat was cleared; John the blogger's, and, releasing Andromeda's hand, he said loudly, "Some friendly greetings, I see." Sarcasm coated his every word. "Come in, it's freezing." He stepped to the side to let the two younger people in. Sherlock snuck back up the stairs before they could enter.

"Hold on!" Mrs. Hudson was coming down the path; she had paper shopping bags in her arms. John held the door. "Thank you, dear."

Upstairs, a fire was roaring in its hearth. The young John had settled himself before it, warming his hands. Beside him, the Consulting Detective sat in his silver armchair, his hands steepled under his chin and his legs stretched out before him. As blogger John entered the room after Mrs. Hudson, who went into the kitchen to fix dinner, ("I'll make it tonight, John, since you have… guests," she had offered.) he noticed Sherlock had seated himself furthest from the long sofa under the smiley wall, but shifted the chair so he could face it. Andromeda was sat there, her arms crossed and her feet on the coffee table. Both sociopaths had their eyes fixed on the other.

"Deducing each other out, are you?" he said, getting a laugh from his nephew by the fire.

The intent, icy gazes didn't stop, and only Sherlock replied with a slight turn of his head, "If you like, John. That's not the way I would have put it."

"Believe me, I know it isn't!" the blond man laughed lightly. A long pause before, "Tea, Nephew?"

"Yes please," the two John had not asked answered simultaneously.

He sighed. "Alright." He glanced at the other John, who nodded, not hiding a smile at the detectives' reaction to each other.

Tea was distributed, and Lestrade entered the room. He refused the offer of tea from a huffy John. He then began to speak to John about a case.

"Not my home, Inspector." Andromeda spoke for the first time in her visit inside 221B. She observed out of the corner of her eye that he was now muffling laughs at her and Sherlock. Rolling her eyes, she set her teacup down on its saucer and walked out of the room and down the stairs.

At her movement, Sherlock took a sharp breath through his teeth and opened his mouth slightly while he moved from his stiffened position.

"Well then," he said, raising his eyebrows at the four people in the kitchen and standing. He strutted away, toward the window, grabbing his violin off of the table as he passed. Snow was now laid fairly thick on, well, everything outside, but the woman in black didn't care. She stood by the door, and Sherlock watched her wrap her coat tightly around her sleek frame and cross her arms to secure it. She stared out across the street at, seemingly, nothing.

Sherlock put the bow to the strings and began to play. A song he memorised well. It had a sad, sort of whining melody. He noticed the chattering stopped behind him, and when he finished the song there was applause. He did not turn. He did not smile with pride. He just stared out of the window.

That meant he saw Andromeda shake her legs out and walk away from his flat.

That meant he saw her crumple to the ground as the bullet found its mark in her body.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I own Andromeda Holmes, John Watson Junior and a new character introduced in this chapter, but, sadly, none of the others. :( **

**Please, if you somewhat like this fanfic and have other Sherlock'd friends that like Fanfics, could you recommend it to them? I want to spread the word about this fanfic, because most of the people I know and have had read it love it. So yeah. Thanks! 3 4 3**

**WARNING!: Grotesque descriptions of blood and wounds. For those of you that are squeamish I will put a little mark like this: before the paragraph with blood in it. **

**Chapter Four**

_Saint Anne's Hospital_

The vintage violin clattered to the floor, it's neck smashing from the body.

The strings rolled back to the pegboard.

The gunshot had jarred through the eardrums of those on Baker's Street. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily as they watched Sherlock sprint out the flat, both used to that kind of thing. Blogger John's head snapped up, prepared and daring the sniper to come at him. His hand brushed the handgun in his belt.

Only he realised the true reason Sherlock had bolted outside.

He didn't see the detective grab for his overcoat, because he knew Andromeda had it. If he recalled Andy had it, he must have been thinking about her. Or the gunshot had something to do with her.

"Shit."

"What is it-?" John interrupted his landlady.

"Call an ambulance, quickly."

"But why?"

"DO IT!" John didn't apologise for screaming at the woman and followed Sherlock.

A slim body lay hidden underneath blood and trench coat. Sherlock flipped it over onto its back, and saw the glassy blue eyes move to look pitifully at him before glazing over, still gazing into his.

No tears wet her eyes, Sherlock noticed, could she be used to pain?

The snow began turning a sickening crimson. Andromeda's pulse was checked, and the door could be heard opening again.

"Oh my, God," John murmured. "Move," he told Sherlock.

The detective turned to look at his partner in crime. He moved quickly to the other side of the woman, knowing time wasn't on their side.

John knelt, his expert hands shifting the coat aside and unbuttoning her deep purple dress shirt. Blood soaked both that and the coat beneath her.

"Shit, shit, shit," was entirely what the doctor said as he saw the wound. It was on her left side. He collected clean snow in his hand and used it to gingerly wash away the blood, but more kept coming.

Sherlock noticed this and stripped his shirt quickly, his artist's hands barely touching each button as they gave way. His well-formed abdomen and chest showed prominently.

John was in a zone of sorts. He always was when there was a sick human being before him. He focused on the task and nothing else, unless it helped. At that moment, Sherlock's shirt was one of the things that would help. He snatched it and pressed it to the wound.

Mrs. Hudson and the DI exited the house; the landlady had one of Sherlock's shirts in her trembling hands. Sherlock came and took it from her, holding both of her hands in his for a moment and then raising a finger to his angular lips to shush her. Lestrade looked over, an iPhone at his ear, and wondered what the secret was.

"Sherlock!" the man, now fully clothed, walked over to John. "I can't carry her." But Sherlock was already on it. He slipped his arms under her; one supporting her neck and the other under her knees. He cradled her gently, and then strode into the flat, Lestrade holding the door open.

Sherlock lost his calm.

Not her.

Why Andromeda?

Why always people he cared about?

Who?

Moriarty.

Wasn't he dead?

Obviously not.

A chronological recollection of the events from Sherlock's point of view after he set Andromeda down on the sofa under the gunshot and paint destroyed wall:

Screeching of sirens and brakes.

Lestrade shouting into his phone.

Thumping of feet up the stairs.

John making him sit in his armchair.

Him refusing.

Doctors coming for the body.

"She's not dead yet!"

No one else would touch this girl.

NO ONE.

Carrying a woman to the ambulance.

Her head lolling back in his arms.

"No.

"LIVE.

"Please."

They won't let me in the ambulance. Damn them she's my-

Everything going black.

"Mmmh, cosy bed. Warm."

"Sherlock, you're mumbling in your sleep again."

"Huh?" The man woke in his room, John at the door.

"And since when do you care about Andromeda?"

"I can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both." The words were shot at John, implying the conversation was over.

John couldn't put it down, "Sherlock, you said you've never met this woman before, but you obviously have-." Icy blue eyes stopped him from speaking. The blond took the risk and kept going, "Come on! I need to know!"

"YES!" The tall man turned over his shoulder to look at him. "I've met her before! Now leave!" The murderous look was back in the blue eyes, the one that sends chills down spines of anyone who dares stare into them. John quickly left the room, but then poked his head back.

"You want to go visit her in the hospital?" he asked meekly.

Sherlock was almost shuddering with anger, but he managed to cool himself enough to nod yes and get out of bed. But, when he tried to exit, John blocked the doorway. "You're going in that?" he said, looking at Sherlock's outfit. John swore he wore the same jammies every night; the white V-neck that was loose, but not so baggy that you couldn't see the outline of his lean muscles underneath and the black and blue plaid pajama pants. Maybe he just wasn't observant enough.

The height difference between the two men was astonishing, and Sherlock had to look down to meet John's eyes and say, "Problem?" The response was a simple shake of the head. "Good."

* * *

**(WARNING: THIS IS THE MAIN BLOOD PART. But it'd be a bad thing to skip soo...)**

"Breathe! Come on woman! It's a simple bullet wound, you'll live!"

Murmurs from across the room, "From her medical files, apparently she's been through much worse."

"You think? The bullet barely missed her vital organs! What is worse?"

A shuffling of papers, "Oh my lord… Poor girl."

"Who does that to a child?"

"Psychos?"

"Moriarty…"

"Don't say that name. Its owner is dead."

"There are rumours that…" the petite woman speaking was cut off by frantic beeping of the heart rate monitor.

"Maeve! I need you over here now!" The frail-framed woman hurried over to the doctors surrounding the bed.

Black hair splayed across the pillow and eyes rolled back in her head so you could only see the whites. Andromeda's breathing was ragged and fast. If you could hear only that, you would think she was scared. In fact, she probably was. She wriggled slightly on the bed and whimpered loudly. Blood leaked from a small hole just below her ribcage. Sharp metal instruments poked and prodded, attempting to remove the shrapnel from the wound. A needle punctured the woman's arm, injecting some sort of sedative drug. Andromeda calmed down almost immediately. Her breathing and heart rate slowed to a normal pace, and then kept slowing.

The shrapnel wasn't the problem anymore.

The blood was.

It drenched the sheets, and the operator's arms. She'd lost too much. Gauze galore was applied to the wound, but was quickly soiled.

When the blood only leaked a slow drizzle, a needle and organic thread was brought out and the two shredded pieces of skin surrounding the hole were carefully pulled together. After that, gauze and then bandages were wound around Andromeda's midsection.

The bleeding had stopped. So had her heart.

* * *

Lestrade drove John, his nephew and Sherlock in his police car with his sirens on, so that he could drive at breakneck speeds without getting ticketed. The road was mostly empty, which was helpful. Sergeant Donavan sat in the passenger's seat, giving the rest of the company updates on Andromeda's condition.

"Oh my god." The frizzy haired woman covered her mouth as she peered at her phone, which gave out a ghostly white light in the otherwise dark car.

"What is it?" John sat forward and put his hand on the back of her seat, trying to see what the text said.

Sherlock tried to not look frantic, but it was his eyes that gave him away. The pupils were already dilated in the dark, but even when Sally gave him the phone to read the message and the screen lit his face up, they remained that way.

The car stopped abruptly in front of St. Anne's causing everyone inside to lurch forward. Sherlock dropped the phone and was gone before anyone could speak. His leather-gloved hands hit the glass double doors of the hospital, and he strode into the lobby, the strong, cleansed hospital smell attacking his scent glands. He didn't even bother to check in with the clerk, who was calling after him, but John caught the door and assured the woman it was okay.

Sherlock was already in the elevator when his flat mate caught up. The doors began to slide closed, and the taller man didn't even bother to catch them for John. He was in too much of a hurry.

The elevator dinged and Sherlock slid through the metal doors. He knew these halls all too well. He found the door he was looking for, (coincidentally room number 221 on flight B) and placed his hand on the bar handle, but a nurse stopped him.

"Sir, you can't go in," the redhead murmured into her mask as if she were frightened of Sherlock.

"Give me one bloody good reason why not!" He raised his voice slightly and pulled the door open.

"Sir!" the nurse trotted in after him, but there was no stopping the man now. She shed her mask.

Andromeda's eyes were closed, but the way her dark hair exploded over the clean, white pillow gave her a wild look. Her hands were folded over her abdomen and the doctors were still monitoring her heart rate, which was going somewhat steadily. Her bed was up against the far wall of a fairly small room, a life support system and monitors beeped beside her, and Sherlock's shoes squeaked against the checked tile.

"Not dead," Sherlock mumbled, outraged. "She's not DEAD?" he said, louder so that the man tending to Andy turned to look at him.

The doctor glanced at the redhead nurse in the doorway, who shrugged and mouthed "detective" at him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, did you want her to be?"

"Who texted Sergeant Donavan saying she was?" his voice had gone high pitched. His quick thoughts told him it was the nurse. "Whom do you work for?" he demanded. John skidded in on the Consulting Detective standing over the ginger nurse, his murderous eyes boring into her.

"Sherlock!" he cried, but the ebony haired man did not budge.

"I don't know what you are talking about," she stood up to the tall man in a way John wished he could. "I don't even own a phone!"

"Oh, don't give me that. Do not play games with me, I've found I am way too good at them. Every one like you has a mobile." Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall behind the small nurse and whipped around to pace the room. Andromeda lay ever so still in her cot, the only thing showing life signs were her monitors.

"Everyone like me, sir?" the nurse, whose nametag read "Maeve M.", said, as she brushed her coat off as if she could dislodge any germs Sherlock would have left from leaning over her.

"Yes, a person as sneaky and badly disguised as you, Misses 'M.'" Sherlock, too, had read her tag. "You aren't who you say you are."

'Why was he delaying his show of deductions?' the little woman thought. 'He's so goddamn sexy when he does that. Oh, maybe he knows…'

"Sir, I think you are in shock. Please, sit down somewhere."

"Stop LYING!" Sherlock stormed towards her and she backed against the wall again. Andromeda squirmed in her sleep; reacting to the loud noises she hated so much. "I can tell, oh I am so good at knowing when people are lying." He stopped advancing and worked on pulling his gloves off, finger by finger. "They normally will shift their eyes about, but first downwards and to the right. My dear nurse, that is what you have been doing, could you stop being so obvious?"

A pale, freckled hand slid into a large pocket in its white overcoat, surreptitiously fishing for the iPhone that lay there. Maeve shoved her other hand into her pocket to cover it.

There was a long silence, in which John Junior showed at the door and then Andromeda's side, John Senior squirmed at his place beside the doorway, the nurse (knowing where every button on the keyboard was without looking) texted for help, the other doctors left the room and Sherlock stuffed his gloves into his pocket.

The older John and Sherlock shared a look. John blinked once, shut the door and grabbed the nurse's right arm. "The phone, please," he whispered into her ear. Her eyes mocked surprise.

"How did you know it was me, Sherlock?" she said with pretend innocence.

"I didn't, John misinterpreted my signal," came the reply, calm and smooth. John gave him the eye. "But thank you for that information. Would you be so kind as to tell me who you are, or who your employer is?" Silence. "Ah, I didn't think so. The phone then." John held his hand out, palm up, for the woman to put the phone into. Reluctantly, she did, and John tossed it to Sherlock. "It's a good thing I know who you are, then!"

"Who am I Mr. Holmes?"

"Maeve M." he answered sarcastically.

"No, no," she smiled, and it wasn't a very nice smile. John knew he had seen that look on a killer before. "If you are as intelligent as Sally tells me, you know what my surname is." But she was talking to air, because Sherlock was engrossed in guessing the pass-code to the phone.

Young John still sat at Andromeda's bedside, murmuring words of praise and comfort while stroking her hand.

John Senior rolled his eyes, "Sherlock!" a dark head snapped to attention, the gray eyes finding the deep blue ones. "Time to go, Lestrade's still waiting in the car."

"Alright," he said, pocketing the mobile.

"You too, nephew."

John gave his uncle a pleading look, then stood, placing Andy's hand back on the bed. He then walked to stand outside of the room with the other John.

Sherlock gave the nurse one last look before stepping towards the door.

"Wait," she stopped him. "Have you guessed yet? And tell me truthfully."

"No," he answered, not looking at her.

"Shall I tell you?" the nurse's nimble fingers fumbled something in her pocket, at which Sherlock looked at.

The nurse didn't wait for an answer. The corridor was empty, and for some reason, Andromeda hadn't been placed in IC, so the lights were being flipped off for the night. Maeve moved with dangerous accuracy.

She threw the pen at one of the machines beside Andromeda. It malfunctioned, shutting her life support system down. The female sociopath began to cough, and then stopped being able to breathe. Her heart rate monitor went wild; it's beeping echoing throughout the entire floor.

Sherlock's eyes widened, having had no time to predict her move. The Johns had gone down to the car.

A door slammed in the corridor, 'Good, medics' Sherlock thought, as he rushed to attempt to fix the monitors. He was wrong. A large black man in bodyguard dress approached him from the doorway and grabbed hold of the detective's shirt from behind.

As he was being pulled out of the mess of doctors and buff bodyguards, he heard the female's voice call with a more prominent Irish accent than she had had before, "Mister Holmes!" She leaned against the door and watched him struggle against the bodyguard as he was carried down to the elevator. He was reaching for the room, maybe to choke her, possibly to try and save Andromeda. "I don't have an employer," she smiled. "Only a husband."

As the metal doors of the elevator closed, Sherlock heard two things. The first of which was the steady drone of a heart monitor without a living occupant. The other was the voice of a man. The voice that said only two words, but the pitch still went higher at the most inappropriate points. It had a faint Irish accent, much like the one Maeve had when she hid her real voice. This was a voice of a man Sherlock knew he never should have heard again. This was the voice of Jim Moriarty.

"Hello, Sherlock."


	5. Chapter 5

**I don't own the Sherlock characters, but Andromeda (is she a Holmes?), John Watson Junior, Maeve Moriarty and Adeline are mine. THEY'RE OURS PRECIOUS. OURS. XD**

**Shall I stop with the cliffhangers?**

**Whoops.**

**Chapter Five**

_Remembrance_

Rough hands released the soft fabric of Sherlock's pajama shirt outside of the hospital. The guard shooed him away, and the detective slipped over on the ice. His head smacked the hardened path, and he didn't rise again after that.

The man dreamed. Sometimes, your brain can recall exact moments of your past. Sometimes, exact conversations of past experiences.

_ "Sherlock! Wake up!" The detective's eyes snapped open and his sharp gaze focused on golden blonde hair as it fell in his dream self's face. He puffed air at the golden wall and it seemed to shatter into millions of strands before returning to its place. The woman that the hair belonged to laughed and stood from her kneeling position beside him on the pinstriped sofa. Her aquamarine eyes pierced him before she turned away, and Sherlock noticed she wore one of his over shirts unbuttoned over one of her camisoles. His conscious self deduced that they must have been fairly close for her to be wearing one of his shirts. 'I like that shirt,' he thought before the woman swished out of the room._

_ "You should go, your brother called for you," her voice traveled from the small kitchen that shared a wall with the sofa. Sherlock heard the faint rumble of a kettle boiling and knew she didn't mean it. If she made you tea, she wanted you to stay. Months of being around this girl had told him that._

_ More conscious thoughts broke into Sherlock's dream, 'who was she? Why am I in her flat? I don't remember ever meeting her! Why have I suddenly got a close relationship with her?' He had no time to crack that mystery before he was rushed into a dream state again._

_ The scene had changed; Sherlock leaned on the doorframe of a door, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze rested on a tall blonde woman, the same from the previous part of his envisage. Except now she looked older, probably seventeen, and had obviously grown her hair out because it was braided down her back so that the thin ends just barely brushed the base of her spine. Her eyes adopted the same devouring interest that Sherlock had when on a case._

_She busied around her study, following the red yarn that connected images and newspapers tacked to the walls and throwing books around onto desks and the floor occasionally. A window, partially obscured by string and flanked by bookshelves, displayed a typical rainy day in London._

_She had acknowledged Sherlock, but refused to talk to him until she found the information she was scourging for. At last, she cried out in joy and grabbed Sherlock by the front of his collar to come see what she had found. He stumbled into the room and observed what she had her eyes fixed on._

_'MAN FOUND DEAD OUTSIDE OXFORD UNIVERSITY' the headline read. Sherlock scanned the rest of the page and deduced that the man 'killed' was a student there that had committed suicide via falling off of a tall building._

_"Bollocks?" the girl questioned, looking up at him. The teenage Sherlock felt his chest flutter absurdly as her eyes scanned him. He then knew that she already had a notion about the suicide._

_"Yes. It was Jim or someone right?"_

_"Yeah. I thought you'd guess that. He was always depressed."_

_"Adeline, I never guess, I know."_

_"Oh, of course. I forgot, you're so specific about stuff, aren't you?" She threw the words over her shoulder before ducking under a length of string and plopping herself down in an overstuffed armchair with a thick book titled "The Lord of the Rings". Sherlock wondered why she even bothered with things like fantasy books; they were useless to her work._

_A few moments later, she slammed the book shut and looked up at the curly haired boy. Sherlock knew she was doing so, despite the fact his back was facing her. "By the looks of it, it could have been you falling off of Oxford rather than Jim!" she teased Sherlock about that school, although they had both graduated three years early, and it was too far away from her home for Sherlock to bother with it anymore. She seemed to know him better than he knew himself, so she obviously knew if he were to commit suicide, it'd either be much closer or out somewhere completely desolate; nowhere in between. He began to wonder if she would care if he died, and then snapped himself out of it. Of course she wouldn't, her mind operated like his, all intellect with no room for sentimentality. _

_He swiveled on his heels to face her. "Addie," the teen detective started, but stopped when he realised she was no longer in the room. He shut his mouth, shoved his hands into his jean pockets, and followed her out the door. The open door was part of a corridor that led from the living room to three other doors, one of which was the loo, the next his room and, at the end, her bedroom. He found her in the living area on a laid back, green plaid armchair by the window. The wide seat of the chair easily fit her in it, even with her legs crossed and book on her lap. Her long back was hunched over the book._

_Footfall echoed through the large flat, Sherlock's. Fabric rustled as he controlled his lanky limbs to sit opposite her. He assumed the thinking position he had taken a liking to; hands steepled under his chin and legs sprawled out across the floor. His feet made contact with a book, and it skidded over the wooden boarding to hit Adeline's foot, which she had put down a few moments earlier. She sighed, placed her bookmark in the crease of the book, and stretched, making sure her foot smacked into Sherlock's. His head shifted from looking at the window beside her to raise his eyebrows at the blonde. She grinned and got up to make tea._

_Again, the substance did not pass his lips, because he woke too soon._

He blinked. John came into focus, and he sat up abruptly. His head swam for a moment, and he realised he was on the floor of St. Anne's, not outside as he thought.

"Adeline," the word escaped without his approval.

"Who?" John asked. His nephew appeared next to him, also confused.

"In my dream, she was…"

"Sherlock, who did you dream about? Are you alright?"

"Fine, and she's… nobody. It's fine." John helped the drowsy detective up.

"Okay," The blogger mumbled, sharing a look with the other John and planning to ask Mycroft about this Adeline. "Sherlock-," he began again, but stopped when he saw him strutting off, his nephew trailing after him. He peeked in Andromeda's room, to assure she was safe.

'Good,' he thought, following the detective and his new admirer, 'Moriarty and Moran left her alone.'

As he followed Sherlock back to the cab, he realised how late it was, and he should have stayed with Andromeda. The younger John twisted on the ice to face his uncle.

"I'll stay with her," he said, walking back through the doors. John the blogger did not know what kind of relationship he and the sociopath woman had, but he allowed him to go.

"Ask for Mary!" he called after the lad. "She'll get you an extra bed in Andromeda's room." The boy nodded and let the door close behind him.

Sherlock allowed John to make him tea, and, when he faked sleep curled up on his armchair for the blogger's sake, to tuck a blanket over him. His toes stuck out of the blue fabric and he pulled them in after John left the room.

He contacted John's fiancé, Mary, and asked how Andromeda was. The text came back fairly quickly.

_**I don't want to alarm you, Mister Holmes, but I don't think you'll ever speak to her again.**_

_**Why ever not? -SH**_

_**We healed her, but her mind has gone quiet.**_

_**Do me a favour, Miss Morston, and do not waste my time by speaking in riddles. I will be there as soon as dawn breaks. -SH**_

_**Oh, I think you'll see me sooner. Goodnight, for the moment, Mister Holmes.**_

Sherlock looked up from the bright screen to see John.

"Go away," he mumbled.

"I knew you weren't asleep," the good doctor replied. "Did Mary text you?"

"Yes, I'm leaving. And yes, I'll make sure she gets home alright." John smiled at his friend.

"Thank you. But could you bring her back here?"

Sherlock blinked a yes, "Not on my bed, though!" he shouted at the door clicked behind him.

He was going to stay with John's nephew and the sociopath in a coma.

* * *

John walked through the hallways of the hospital, finding Mary already in Andromeda's room.

"Hello, nephew. Oh, can I call you that?" she smiled at the boy as he sat by Andromeda and held her hand.

"Yes, provided I can call you Aunt," he said the words without looking at the woman.

"Of course. And your bed is the armchair here, I'm afraid."

This time, the dark-blond boy smiled up at Mary. "Thank you." She only returned the beam and exited the room. John peeked out the window to see Sherlock driving Lestrade's cab, and the yellow blonde woman entering the passenger's side.

"Andy, I'm going to sleep, but don't die on me, okay?" he kissed the pale hand and snuggled up in the fold out mattress that was the armchair beside the bed.

And sleep he did, but not once was he disturbed by Andromeda's cries in the night.

Or the manic giggling coming from the hallway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello! Are you ready for the story?**

**Oh, look! A rare sighting! What is it? Two chapters in one day!**

**Happy? (She knows I'm pointing a look at her.)**

**I don't own Moriarty, or any of the characters of Sherlock. I only have John Watson Junior in this chapter.**

**Leave a review and/or like wouldya?**

**Do you nice peoples like the shorter chapters?**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter Six**

_Psychopaths Galore_

John woke to the one thing he did not want to see.

Andromeda's bed was empty.

It wasn't like there was a struggle or anything; the sheets were tucked perfectly under the flowery duvet. He frantically pressed the big, red call button beside the bed. Much to his dismay, the nurses did not come, not even if he pressed it multiple times. He let out a frustrated cry and stood, storming over to the door. He reached for the handle, preparing for the cold metal to hit his perspiration-lined palms, but it swung open before he could touch it. Of course, hospital doors open inwards. There was going to be a bruise in the middle of John's forehead now. Oh, and another one where the back of his skull made impact with the blue tile.

"Hello!" a man stood over the boy. "Were you calling for me?" John's clenched his core muscles enough so he could see a dark haired man smiling at him. He did not like that smile, not one bit.

Immediately, he scrabbled back, crab walk style, his breathing uneven.

"What'd you do with her?" he screamed, hoping without hope that he would be loud enough for the nurses to hear.

"Oh, Johnny boy! You really think people are going to help you? How wrong you are." The man pulled a pair of white latex gloves out of his gray suit pocket and pulled them over his rough hands. "I don't really understand why you don't recognise me."

"Why should I? Who the hell are you?" He used the bed to help himself up, but that was a mistake, because the creep by the door pushed him down. The blond boy cried out, and tried to sit up, only to be pressed further up the bed. The man clunked him on the head with some sort of heavy metal instrument that phased through John's vision before he could identify it. It paralysed him long enough for the manic to tie him down with… zip ties?

"Oh dear, John, oh dear. I forgot I made you forget everything. Even darling Andy! Well, when we're done here, you'll remember every. Haunting. Detail!" That was when John realised he wasn't really in St. Anne's, merely a room made to look like Andromeda's.

"I know Andromeda, what are you on about, psycho?" John gave up struggling against the white plastic and laid his head back on the pillow.

"Ooh, hasn't Daddy taught you about name calling? Oh! Whoopsie daisy! Things keep slipping my mind today! I forgot you never met your dad! What about Mummy? Oh! My bad again, Mummy didn't care about you. You know, you aren't the only one whose parents don't like their child. Remember little Andy? No, I know you don't remember her before she was seventeen, you won't remember the time when you were both five and she ratted you out for saying 'crap'! But SHE also lost her parents, you know. Both just didn't care." The man was staring right at John from the armchair now.

"Shut up! Just SHUT UP!" he yelled as forcefully as he could, but the man's excitement was not dented.

"Deduce who I am! I know you can." The smile was on his face again. John literally shuddered with rage.

He took a shaky breath, "I. Don't. Know." He insisted.

The man stood and leaned over the poor boy. "Yes. You. DO!" the man's breath tickled John's ear. He then stood straight again and planted himself at the end of the cot. John refused to look at him and found an interest with the ceiling. "There are two ways you could know my name. You want me to name one?" John said nothing. "One, the cute little stories that you've read all over the place! Except they're not STORIES, John, they're newspaper articles about your uncle and the detective and I. Oh, look, shall I give you back your memories? No? Okay, well take my word for it then, you and I have met before! Remember when you were little? Of course you don't!"

John never really looked back on the times when he was a boy under fifteen. It hit hi that he couldn't remember much about it, other than his mother abused him whenever he was home. "How could you POSSIBLY know that?" he said, raising his head to glare at the madman.

The man smirked. "What's that saying? Another psychopath says it often. Oh yes! Spoilers! John! I can't tell you ANYTHING. You'll just have to remember." John gave him a blank stare. "Oh, don't worry. While you spend some time with me and Sebby here," a white blond man with a strong jaw line entered the room with a hypodermic syringe, "you'll remember everything in your dreams!"

John began to frantically squirm, but couldn't move away from the ever-approaching needle.

"Go to sleep, John. And when you wake up- oh, I don't think you'll be doing that for a very long time." The bleach blond haired man laughed.

John felt the prick of the needle sliding under his skin, and the rush of a foreign fluid entering his neck.

"ANDROMEDA!" he cried out. The chemical felt like fire burning through his veins.

"Maybe you'll see her in your dreams, boy." "Sebby"'s voice was definitely a man's, but was higher pitched than most. "After all, we gave her the same drug.

The last word John managed before he slipped out of consciousness was, "No."


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey! I suspect you viewers-but-not-likers have seen His Last Vow? If not, well, don't read this until you have. Spoilers, sweetie!**

**Disclaimer: STILL don't own the Sherlock characters, but Andromeda, John Junior, Maeve Moriarty and Adeline are mine!**

**Trust me, I DO have everything planned out by this point, so umm don't worry too much about the "little" cliffhangers and unanswered questions.**

**Leave a like and review? I know you people are reading it! Thanks! :)**

**Chapter Seven**

What Ever Happened To Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock knew there was something up. It wasn't what he saw; it was what he didn't see.

Mary.

Where'd she go?

He'd taken Lestrade's cab to get her, and she didn't show. Curiosity sprang up inside him. John said she'd be here. How long had it been?

A policeman strode up to the car, communicator in hand. He tapped on the windowpane, and Sherlock rolled it down. He deduced that the man was one of violent nature; scars imprinted their own stories into the tanned face.

"Sir, you've been parked here for a while, may I ask of your business with the hospital?" The bobby's eyes stared right at Sherlock, but Sherlock could tell he wanted to look away.

"I was going to pick someone up," he replied, returning the gaze.

"Well, obviously they aren't here, sir. I advise you go home." The man ducked his head out of the window frame, expecting Sherlock to start the engine, but he didn't. "Sir, you need to leave. Now would be a good time. You've already been here four hours."

Four hours. Had he really? Now Sherlock popped his curly head out of the window. "Are you sure about that?"

"Sir, I will have to report you of suspicious behav-." The man's mouth was covered with a chloroform-coated handkerchief for the rest of that sentence.

The person behind him was a white blond man with deep-set black eyes and low cheekbones. Behind him, in the shadow of the building, was none other than James Moriarty.

The officer slumped to the ground, and his molester drugged him further, producing a syringe from the large pockets of his jeans. The drug was probably something that would fuzz his memories.

"Sherlock! Hello there, old friend." Moriarty stepped away from the wall.

"As far as I know, we were never got along that well." Sherlock turned the keys in the ignition.

"Sherlock! You just got here, why leave so soon?" The snake man looked somewhat upset for a moment.

"Apparently, I've been here four hours. And have you seen Mary?"

"FOUR hours? Oh boy, Sherlock, really? All to pick up little Miss Mary? I wonder what happened!"

Sherlock deduced that Jim had probably slashed the tires, and found he was right. A gust of air whined as it escaped the front right tire. He sighed, turning the keys again, and left the car.

"Sherlock, you've gotten boring. I've been keeping tabs on you, believe me. So, is solitary life suiting you?"

The detective searched his mind, but found it blank in the case of the last four hours.

"What have I been doing for the last few hours?" he inquired, remembering he had no coat pockets to shove his hands into.

"I deduce the answer is yes, then! I mean, come on, your first question you asked me was the location of a useless blonde." He grinned, popping gum into his mouth. He walked up to the taller man and chewed it and the words in his face. "I wonder how many of those you've met."

Sherlock stepped back, and then began to pace the pavement, hiding his alarm. He faked an inquisitive look at the criminal. "What was my first question supposed to be?" He clasped his hands behind him, keeping an eye on the murderer.

"Oh, you know! Stop messing with me!" The man looked down and shook his head disapprovingly.

"Alright then, how DID you do it?"

"How'd I do what?" the creepy grin popped up again. "Okay, okay. I'll stop." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "How about we play a game?"

"Oh?"

"You tell me how you survived, and I'll tell you how I did."

A pause. "Deal."

* * *

Mary Watson was tied up. Literally. Her mouth was gagged with a foul tasting rag, and it cut into the sides of her mouth. Saliva wet the inside of it and dried blood fluttered in her eyelashes. Something damp touched her ribs and she felt with her freed hands that it was her own blood. The baby inside her moved in protest of the ropes digging into her midsection.

"Did you miss me?" A slithery voice bounced off of the cold stone walls and seemed to smack into Mary's eardrums.

"Sherlock said you shot yourself in the brain! How… the hell… are you alive?" The last sentence barely escaped her lips as the rag was untied. The thick twine was damaging something in her, she was sure.

"Aww, how sweet. Little miss knocked up Mary, playing innocent are we? I know you've seen my broadcast." James Moriarty now stood over the smaller woman, and she could smell the peppermint gum that twiddled around amongst his teeth. "How is the baby, by the way?" He reached down and cupped his hand around her slightly protruding belly, and if Mary weren't held back, she would have slapped him across the face. Instead, she stared knives into the gray suit. "I'm here to finish what you and Charles Augustus Magnussen started."

"That… shouldn't… be… your… business." Nope, the bindings were too tight.

"I told Sherlock how I survived, you know. But I wouldn't tell you! You weren't even a part of the adorable detective's life back then!" He swiveled on his heels and folded his hands behind his back, staring at the bland gray wall opposite Mary. Of course, there was nothing remotely interesting there to stare at. He began talking again, something about John, (it always came back to him, didn't it?) but Mary Morstan-Watson heard none of it, because she blacked out.

* * *

The drugged and sleeping John up in the hospital slept, and part of his dream was realising that the blonde he had seen walking out of the hospital hadn't been his aunt at all. Merely someone made to look like her, so he wouldn't worry. Oh, he was frantic now. Although he hadn't been at his uncle's wedding, he really seemed to like Mary. Where was she? That brought him to the second portion of his slumber. He knew exactly where she was. Somehow, the drug allowed him to expand his senses to outside of his cell, even in sleep. The woman was gagged in a dark room, and how he wished he could comfort her.

* * *

Sherlock had been parked next to Saint Anne's for four hours straight, waiting for a woman who would not exit that building. What had he been doing? Moriarty had had his way with him. To keep the cold trapped and banging up against the windows, the detective had rolled them up. In the warmth of the heater, and the knock out gas fed through it, he had fallen asleep. His limp form had been taken out of the car, and placed on a stretcher. That was wheeled into a cleansed white room, where Moriarty's men had extracted all the information they needed.

* * *

The third part of John's sleep came with the actual dreaming, but those images are far too horrid for even this tale.


End file.
